


Poor Puzzled Moon

by Kt_fairy



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter knows a bad idea when he see's one, Post-The Hanging Tree, Spoilers, there are emotions that need to be dealt with they're trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:23:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: It was all very complicated, and we were clueless as to how to get this particular ghost to behave short of getting his old man in to tell him off. So we had gone to speak to him in the dewy early morning, moisture heavy in the warming spring air. I was not too sure about pulling out the big guns (Nightingale) so early but when things are getting weird on the Queen’s front lawn you kind of have to. Trying to get a ghost? echo? of a River to behave opens up a can (envelope) of worms from Nightingale's past that everyone involved would rather not deal with, but sunshine always comes after storms.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Бедная озадаченная Луна](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011230) by [Bathilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bathilda/pseuds/Bathilda)



> You ever get a niggle of an idea and then when you acknowledge it everything gets out of hand? That's what happened here.

 

 

 

 Going on tip toes on the top of a fifty year old (at least) ladder while reaching for a drawer was something the officer who ran my last health and safety seminar had not expressly warned against, but I got the impression if he saw me it would be put on it’s own slide titled ‘For those of you without common sense.’

  I got out the wad of files I was looking for, peering around to make sure Molly had not crept up on me like she always did when I was about to do something she disapproved of, before putting the slightly musty brown envelope between my teeth and carefully backing down the ladder because I am a responsible modern policeman. Not like Nightingale who would quite nonchalantly hook his expensive handmade shoes around the sides and slide down a ladder like he was on a warship in a WWII movie.

 He probably had been. Not the movie bit. Well, I don’t think so. He certainly dressed well enough. Had those fine boned, elegant features black and white cameras loved.

 I sighed as I placed the file down on a table and flicked on one of the brass lamps with a curved green glass shade that screamed timeless twenties aesthetic. I’d have to go and check now or I’d be wondering about it for the rest of my life. Not like I could ask him or the ribbing I would get would be as as dry as a desert, or Stoptober at Guleeds place.

 The Library annex was a tall, square room that would have been quite large if every wall was not covered, floor to ceiling, in bookcases and filing cabinets. There was not even a window! Just a massive square skylight that Molly somehow kept impeccably clean of moss and leaves and dead things, I would not be surprised if she crawled up the walls to do it when everyone was out but the thought gave me the creeps so I stopped. The skylight gave the room a good bathing in natural light when the sun was out, which being London meant a couple of months in the summer and one week in October that left everyone a bit confused. As this was mid spring the sun was firmly behind a cloud, giving just enough light to the library that you realised how dark it was.

 As I was still a little freaked out by the image of Molly crawling up the wall like a spider I flicked on a few other lamps to create a little bubble of warm, synthetic light around me and went back to the file.

 The case we had was one of those rare non-death based ones. Nightingale had mentioned off hand that there had been far less murders before I became an apprentice then seemed to realise how that could be taken. I had let him scramble around for a moment trying to assure me it was to do with the magic coming back before I let him off the hook and got knowing stink eye while I tried not to grin at him.

 After that night in Green Park when we were after Reynard Fossman and found the psychopath formerly known as The Faceless Man instead, the ghost? echo? of the old Tyburn river (not Sir William who I had met while buried under a platform at Oxford Street station but a naked guy covered in woad), let loose by Lady Ty’s -understandable if illegal- rage at the attempted assassination of her and her daughter, had been causing some problems. Problems like hunting foxes and leaving them skinned at Hyde Park Corner for rich tourists to walk past and frightening the horses of the Household Cavalry when they were on their morning exercise around The Mall by skipping about singing Nicki Minaj songs while brandishing spears.

 Lady Ty could not control him- a little embarrassing when he was pretty much her. She said he was little better than a stroppy thirteen year old but unlike an actual one you could not ground him into submission

 It was all very complicated, and we were clueless as to how to get the god ghost of a river to behave short of getting his old man into tell him off which was a last resort as Mamma Thames would be as pleased about him coming onto her turf as Old Father Thames would be about coming back into the city that killed most of his children.

 So we had gone to speak to him in the dewy early morning, moisture so heavy in the warming spring air that it curled the ends of Nightingale's otherwise immaculate hair. I was not too sure about pulling out the big guns (Nightingale) so early but when things are getting weird on the Queen’s front lawn you kind of have to.

 Turns out my worries were all for nothing as after a few minutes standing around like lemons making our magical presence felt the man himself had come jogging out of nowhere, literally he just appeared, took one look at Nightingale and had transformed himself into, I guessed from the earring and hose, the dashing and debonair Sir William of the mid Elizabethan period.

“Sir William of the Tyburn.” He had introduced himself with a flourishing bow that was more respect than we ever usually got, even Nightingale.

“I am DCI Thomas Nightingale of the…”

“Oh I know who you are mate, I’d recognise that tailoring anywhere.” He said with what I had thought could not be a leer but as our conversation went on I realised it really had been.

 Nightingale fell in on the quite shameless flirting a little after I did, I could tell as his pale cheeks went a shade of red that clashed with his pale blue tie. White people, shit out of luck with blushing. Sir William took one look and had grinned like he had wanted to eat Nightingale whole so I shot one of my mums best glares at him. I had no doubt Nightingale could shut him down with one sharp remark but I wanted to let him know I was on to him.

"I swear upon my oath, as a good christian, that I will never, while I breathe, cause any disturbances of the peace of our Dear and Noble Queen.” He had sworn with a genuinely serious look on his face. It seemed he had not actually realised the huge gaff at the end of the road was where the Queen lived and had looked a little embarrassed for all of one minute before he turned a faux earnest look on Nightingale. “But I think you should come and check up on me, Thomas, I always was a cheeky bugger but the thrill of being alive again s’made me feel a little bit _naughty_.”

 So that’s about when I started wishing for a tree to fall on us and end this. Nightingale had looked as flustered as I had ever seen him, genuinely speechless for a few moments before informing Sir.William if he pulled anything he was going to dob him in to his dad - in so many words.

 I had even caught the cheeky git red handed staring at Nightingale's (look he’s my boss okay I don’t really want to acknowledge this so I’ll just get it over with quickly as possible and we can all get on with our lives) _behind_ as we walked back to the Jag. Now I know from when he kicks my arse in boxing practise that Nightingale has a great body for a centenarian, let alone the early forties he looks (certainly better than mine after Christmas excesses) and the suit’s only help make that apparent, but this was too much. 

“Can we do a ghost of a god for sexual harassment?” I had mumbled when we got in the Jag.

“I've dealt with worse Peter. It's quite alright.”

“Oh really?” I had asked, trying not to seem too keen which was the only way I got Nightingale to volunteer stories about himself, turning in my seat to look at him but he had his grey eyes firmly fixed on the wing mirror.

"He's just a bit of a cad, I’ve known enough of them in my time. He was quite pleasant by comparison."

“Oh…” Most of those guys were probably dead, or just very very old, but I had still felt a sudden urge to _impello_ them against a hard surface.

 So, he was the reason I had just broken several health and safety guidelines for a few seventeenth century pamphlets on the nature of _genii locorum_ , the soul, The Force, and all that in the hope it could clue us in as to how and why Ex-Tyburn was currently haunting Green Park. Meanwhile Nightingale was in the magic library with the unenviable task of parsing through several non-latin based or dead languages trying to find out what oath we could get him to swear that would make him behave for good. He had quite given himself away that he would be perfectly happy to cause trouble if it would bring Nightingale back. Not the subtlest boy was Sir.William.

  The envelope the pamphlets were in was old and very delicate so I went on a search for a new plastic file to put them in because I am self aware enough to know I was not going to be able to stuff them all back in it without ripping it to shreds, besides I thought I would help the migraine a curator got somewhere when a priceless book was just put on a shelf in a room with no climate control or anything.

 I carefully shook them out onto the soft green leather on the table top and sorted through them, idly wondering if I should be wearing gloves when my fingertips brushed something that gave me a rush of emotion so intense it was like belly flopping into a pool from a great height.

 There was horror right there in my throat burning like bile, guilt borrowing into where my heart was and making my whole chest ache, anger flaring up behind my eyes and a regret so bone deep I staggered back into the softness of love, bittersweet but sweet nonetheless, the smell of a river in the summer, the feeling of cotton over a warm, slender waist under my hands, the sound of faint laughter before a loud bang made me jump about a foot in the air.

 I had to hold onto the table my heart was racing so fast, ears ringing from a gunshot I knew had not been real but I could swear I could smell the faint acrid smell of cordite rolling around me.

 I grabbed a pencil and used the blunt end to move ancient paper aside to reveal what I had touched, noticing my hand was grabbing the side of my head at the same time I realised what I had found.

 The envelope had once been crisp and white, made of expensive heavy stock paper with the crest of the Folly printed in the left corner, a few brown splatters of what I recognised as blood over where a stamp should be, a couple of drops marring the elegant, slightly shakily written name on the front. _Thomas._

“Oh fuck.” I said into the quiet room and sat down heavily.

 I knew this was from David Mellenby, I could not tell you how but I knew. I risked touching it again and there was nothing, it seemed that all the emotional vestigia that had been sealed up in it had discharged at the first touch which I was kind of glad about because firstly, didn’t want to experience that ever again. Secondly, really didn’t want Nightingale to have to go through all that. Ever.

 I turned the envelope over in my hands and noticed it was sealed, the gum had degraded quite a lot over the decades since it was sealed so I did not poke it too much. I looked around the empty room lit by the grey London sky and energy saving bulbs, trying to find answers as to why this was shoved into a file about seventeenth century pamphlets on what the fuck _genus loci_ even were.

 As I am a Detective Constable of the great and mighty Metropolitan Police Force it did not take me long to work out that this had been hidden. Now was just to work out who it had been hidden by. If it was Nightingale I sure as shit was not going to give it to him, just shove it at the back of a draw and repress everything in true British fashion. But if it had been him who had hidden it away for the sake of his own well being, his own grief after having lost so many, then he would not have let me go poking around anywhere near it. I doubt this was something you would forget where you had hidden it, and if you really never wanted to see it again surely destroy it? Maybe he could not bare to destroy the last piece of David that was not the horrorshow locked up in the basement, but not able to read it?

 That did not sound like Nightingale at all, he was a bombing from altitude kinda guy - man after my own heart- and he would definately think of somewhere better to put it than in the Library annex.

 No, this had definitely been hidden by someone in a rush, someone who wanted to save Nightingale hurt maybe? Maybe to protect him against someone else reading it and reporting him for, in the words of the time, ‘being a sodomite’? But knew they would only cause more trouble if they got caught with it, putting it somewhere to move later on but never getting the chance.

 After all this time, all these years, with Nightingale finally smiling and cheeky and being gloriously insubordinate to the commissioner, did I really want to bring up those ghosts? I wanted to protect him, I always had which was weird as he was the one who could knock out a tank and chuck white goods through bungalows with not a hair out of place while I could do precisely none of those things. But the memory of holding his warm hand while he lay unconscious in a hospital bed had never left me.

  _Some secrets aren’t yours to tell and some are not yours to keep,_ a voice that sounded like Bev’s echoed in my head and I wondered if she had actually said that to me before or if she had just become my moral backbone.

 It was fair though, he could choose to open it now or later or just set the whole thing on fire and chuck it at me.

 I didn’t dawdle, if someone was dead I probably would have left it until after my research but as Nightingale had charmed Sir William into behaving for the time being I steeled myself to encounter some emotions and got on with it.

 I met Molly on the way, floating around doing her creepy thing, “Uh Molly?” She turned her cold black eyes on me and I took a half step forward. “I found something that Nightingale won’t like. If it’s what I think it is.” I held out the letter just enough for her to see the front, ready to snatch it back if she made to grab it - not that I thought Molly would hide anything of hers outside the kitchen but you never know. She looked at it for a long moment, letting out a small hiss.

“I know. I know. But it’s not something I can hide from him.”

 She made a gesture that I took meant stay here and floated away. At least I hoped it meant stay here and she had not just bailed on me. She returned after a couple of minutes with a bottle of whiskey and two sparkling crystal glasses. I took the bottle by the neck and pinched the glasses between my thumb and forefinger. “Thanks. Thought I should warn you in case we need damage control.”

 Her face took on such a look of battle hardened readiness I retreated a couple of steps. If Mr.Punch or Martin Chorley ever showed up within her reach I would run for the nearest bomb shelter because she looked ready to fight sadness itself.

“Me too, Moll’s.” I said, not missing her glare as I made my way to the magical library.

 Nightingale was sat with his cheek resting on the back of his hand, slouching as much as he ever did as he scanned the pages of a book written in what looked like Anglo-Saxon and therefore should probably be in the British Library. He looked tired and bored, a lock of his neat pre-war haircut at risk of slipping into his eyes, giving him the appearance of a very uninterested teenager which under any other circumstances would have made me laugh.

 I really wish whoever hid this letter had just gone and burnt it.

“Sir.” I said quietly and he rolled his head to look at me before sitting up slightly, glancing down at the text in a way that meant he had not been paying attention for awhile at least.

“Yes Peter, what have you found?”

 I took a deep breath as I unconsciously curled my fingers into the paper, having last minute thoughts about bottling it but his eyes caught the movement, looking at the envelope for a moment, then at the bottle and glasses, before looking up at me with a mixture of concern and puzzlement. “I don’t know if you want to know what I found.”

“Well that is a conundrum.” He said evenly.

“It’s a letter.” I explained as I walked closer to him. “Addressed to you and gave off a massive shock of vestigia when I first touched it. Nothing on it now, but it was...telling.”

“A letter?” He asked, watching me as I came to stand at the corner of the table he was sat at.

“It’s from David Mellenby.”

 He looked at me for a long time not breathing, not moving, not even blinking, and I was starting to get worried before his gaze dropped to what I was holding, snapping away to look at the middle of the table as he pressed his lips together into a thin line.

“Where was it?”

“In with the pamphlets I was looking at.”

 He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and flopping back in his chair. The lock finally gave way and fell into his eyes and he mindlessly pushed it back into place, holding out the hand to me in what would have been an imperious gesture if not for the circumstances. 

“I can read it out for you, sir?” I offered, not that I wanted to but seeing him fall apart was definitely the worst option of the two. “Or even just read it and give you an overview?”

 He looked at me again in a mixture of relief and fondness that was...yeah. Nice. “I thought you had, as you knew who it was from.”

“The vesitga…”

“Ah, I see...No, I’ll read it Peter. Thank you.”

  _I really don’t want to be thanked for this_  I thought as I handed it over, surprised at how light it was as it left my grip. It had felt a lot heavier when I was carrying it around with me.

 I placed the bottle and glasses within his reach and stepped back a bit to give him some space but did not leave the room, was not going to unless he told me and then I would wait outside the door because he had suffered enough on his own and I was not a total bastard.

 He did not shoo me away or even look at me once he had the letter in his hands that were resolutely not shaking, what I could see of his face was as neutral as ever and I took a moment to marvel at the control needed to have this much of a stiff upper lip. He put the letter down and reached for the whiskey, cracking it open and pouring a measure that he nudged closer to me before pouring himself a double. He considered it a moment before knocking it back, not trying to hide a small cough at what must have been the burn before pouring himself a smaller measure that he thankfully did not also knock back.

 He opened the letter with less care and reverence than I expected, shoving his thumb under the tongue at the back and flipping it open so the envelope ripped slightly, pulling out the folded piece of paper that still had patches of the stark white it had once been between the yellow discolouration around the edges.

“What did you feel when you touched it?” 

“Grief, regret, horror and…” I paused, debating whether to mention the bang or the feeling of touching up who was most likely him, “...and um, love.”

 Nightingale shook his head at the letter and I heard the word ‘bastard’ on his breath as he opened it, the paper creaking as it was straightened out from decades being folding up.

 He read it silently, taking his time, and I stood and watched him, waiting for the other foot to drop.

 But it never did, he just folded it up quietly and placed it a little way away from him.

“Should I have shown you?” I asked, needing to break the ringing silence in the room.

“Yes, I think it was best that you did.”

“If you - you know- wanna talk about it. To me. You can?”

 His eyes flicked up to me briefly but his face remained neutral. “It’s quite all right Peter.” 

“I don’t think it is.”

“No, it’s not. I meant you needn’t offer, I wouldn’t burden you with all this.”

“But...I know you’re my guvnor and I’m your apprentice but we’re friends? Right? At least I think we are, and…” I trailed off, it wasn’t fair to tell the man I worried about him just after he got a suicide note from his long dead something.

 Nightingale looked as awkward as I felt, but also touched and a little confused as well. “I think we could be considered friends, yes.” 

“So, I’m quite happy to be a shoulder to cry on. Not that I expect you to cry, but if you do…” 

“I’m not going to cry.” Relief must have shown on my face as the corners of his soft mouth twitched slightly. “I’m just not sure you want to hear all this.”

“Do I want to know how sad you probably are right now? No, because I’d rather you weren’t. But you’ve done stuff for me you’d rather not so _quid pro quo_ and all that.”

 He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just looked at the letter. “How do you know about David?”

“Hugh Oswald told me.”

“Told you what?” He asked in a precise, measured tone that meant he was waiting to be surprised.

“That the Nazi’s did typical Nazi things with his research, that he wanted to get it out of Ettersburg not blow it up, you got him out alive and then…”

 Nightingale surprised me by huffing and rolling his eyes. “He probably told you about the rumours about Molly and I?”

“Yes.”

 He shook his head. “What was it Lady Helena said? _Assumed straight until proven guilty_. But it was a good thing in the long run I suppose, what they did to Turing wasn’t pleasant in the slightest.”

“Did you know Alan Turing?”

 He shot me a look. “No, why on earth should I?”

“I didn’t believe him about Molly.” I said, changing the subject before I dug myself into a hole and got a telling off.

 Nightingale looked at me like he would have been surprised if I had. “David was two years above me at Casterbrook, was fascinated by my control of the _formae_. Well most people were back then, but he had one of those inquiring minds that always wanted to know why and how.” He glanced at me and I put on my most innocent expression. “He was always sneaking in to watch me practising which was very off putting for a twelve year old you understand. And then when we were better acquainted he kept on dragging me off somewhere to ask me questions and get me to do variations of spells and such which was all rather dull.” I could see it now. Slim, soft faced fourteen year old Nightingale with ink on his fingers and school cap pushed back on his head sat with his hands in his pockets in an empty classroom being too respectful to tell the older boy to bugger off. I wondered how old they had both been when it had become more than that, knowing what teenagers cooped up together are like I can’t imagine it was as old as I would have liked. “He was always fascinated by what I could do, I thought it was the only thing that made him...you don’t go and kill yourself if you...It was his research that made all those horrors at Ettersburg, his insistence to get it all back that made the whole mess happen, and I cannot begin to imagine what knowing that would do to a man, how that would haunt you. But I was the one who waded knee deep through the consequences of it for weeks, I couldn’t be a crutch for him but I still tried…as you know it was not enough.” He gave the letter a dirty look. “He never once told me he loved me to my face, not once. Not even before he shot his bloody self.”

 I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscles there move as he looked at me. He was not upset, he was angry, and I swallowed my apology that I had felt the love that should have been for him, I didn’t think he would have wanted to feel it in the first place. “You deserved better. You _deserve_ better.”

“It’s never about what we deserve.” I thought about Simone, about the baby chucked out of a window my first week on the job, about Lesley, about what Lady Ty had said about Bev and began to feel sorry for myself. “I’ve made you melancholy, I’m sor…”

“Don’t apologise to me, sir. I knew this wasn’t going to be a picnic as soon as I found the letter.”

“Yes well.” He picked the letter up again, scanned it and then put it down. “I want to burn this but I feel I may regret it." 

“I thought you would. Burn it I mean.” I said and then noticed my hand was still on his shoulder and I slowly took it back, reaching out for the whiskey so it did not look like I was snatching it back. He was not a very tactile person and the last thing I wanted to do right now was make him feel uncomfortable. “We’re more similar than we seem.” 

“Quite.”

“I can take it and put it somewhere if you want? Until you decide what to do with it.” 

“That is a very kind offer. I shall let you know if I intend to take you up on it.”

 We sat in silence for a moment before I asked. “Are you going to be okay, sir?” He gave me a look that reminded me he had survived worst and nodded. “I’m not going to have to stop you doing something stupid with Sir.William am I?”

“He wishes.” Nightingale muttered and I held in a laugh until I saw his smirk and then I grinned.

“You could do a lot better, Sir.” 

“You’re not going to threaten me with that Grindr thing are you?”

“Oh no, no way sir. No way.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” He muttered, picking up the envelope and looking at the front, thumb passing over the blood splatter on the corner. “I had forgot how much of a mess everything was.” He balled up the envelope and glanced at me. “Is your phone off?”

 I scrambled to flick the kill switch and watched as the ball of paper floated into the air, flaring for a moment before compacting into a solid ball of ash that donked onto the table and rolled towards me.

 I examined it, it was solid, perfectly round and smooth like an opaque marble. 

“That felt better.” He declared.

“See, having a go at me about blowing stuff up. It’s my coping method!”

 That got a rye smile. “I’m sure London would prefer it to be yoga or knitting or some such less costly hobby.”

“Ah well, she’s survived worse and come out all the more beautiful and brilliant and unique. Bit like you.”

 He made to reply then seemed to realise what I had said about the same time I had, clearing his throat quite firmly while pink spread over his cheekbones, which I took to be the well mannered version of my wanting to die. Feed me to Molly. Throw me in the ocean.

 We glanced at one another for one horrible, awkward, tense moment, and then we were laughing, the tension draining out of Nightingale while I felt a little hysterical. “What would Miss Brook say?” He sniggered, leaning away from me as a fresh wave of giggles overtook him at the look on my face.

“Respectfully sir, you’re a menace.”

 He gave me a perfectly innocent ‘Who me?’ face and I thought yeah, David Mellenby definitely loved you and was an idiot not to tell you every moment he could. In fact I said the last bit out loud and his smile became sweeter.

“Thank you Peter, that is very nice of you to say.”

“S’not nice it’s the truth.”

 He gave me a searching look and them seemed to not want to know what the hell I meant by that which I was relieved by because at the moment I had a girlfriend (although however long that lasted was up to what I decided I wanted for my future), and even if I didn’t, doing anything about how soft Nightingale’s mouth looked, about his powerful arms and slender wrists, about how nice he looked slightly rumpled was...a very bad idea.

 Sir.William of Tyburn turning up on our doorstep three days later as we were about to enforce a stronger oath on him was also very bad idea all around. I took one look at him with his simply attractive face, modern haircut, neat trousers, checked shirt and bomber jacket and almost shut the door in his face. 

“Does Lady Ty know you’re here?”

“What’s she got to do with anything? I wanna talk with your boss.”

“About what?”

“Uuuh about the fact I’m not going anywhere after I got dragged back into the world of the living by my pissed off successor? It’s been a month mate, I’ve become corporeal look at me.” He waved his arm around and I had to admit he did look quite solid.

“Can you come in here?”

“Is that a trick question?” He asked, looking up at the face of the building before rumpling his nose. “Ah, magic fuckery. Nice to know I’m still godlike enough to be kept out.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and all I could think of was ‘cad’. “So, like I said. I’m not going anywhere. Lady Ty’s given me a flat and told me to piss off out of Green Park and I wanted to report myself to the authorities. So can I speak with your boss?”

 As much as I wanted to tell him to piss off out of Russell Square, I couldn’t. This was an official place of police business and he was actually trying to honour the agreements even if I knew it was only because he was trying to chat up Nightingale, who was, as expected, not wallowing in sadness of lost love and maybe’s - the distance of seventy years would do that to you - but still not quite himself, also as expected.

 He had given me the letter the next morning, looking a lot more fragile than when I had first seen it, probably all the times he had been opening and closing it. “I will probably burn it, but I’m not going to jump the gun just yet. Hide it away for me will you.” He did not ask me to not read it and that implicit trust stamped down any of my natural _and_ coppers curiosity, not that I was planning on reading it anyway. Some lines even I don’t cross.

“Alright then, ‘round the back. We can get you in through the wards that way.” I wasn’t about to tell him the wards didn’t actually stretch that far. I wasn’t going to have every Tom, Dick, and Fae turn up in my techcave or fuck around the with the classic cars thanks. 

“You making me come in the tradesmans entrance?” He asked, already jogging down the steps.

“Got a problem with that?” 

“Nah, just hoped I could take your boss out for sushi.”

I laughed. “You’d never get him within ten feet of a Yo Sushi!” 

“I bet you haven’t even asked him!” He yelled along the street, being ignored by the people rushing to work at the British Museum and Senate House.

 _Yeah_ , I thought, _like to see you try_.

 I wasn’t needed at their meeting, Nightingale telling me to get on with my Greek while he took care of it, but I found a couple of excuses to pop in to the techcave to make sure Sir.William was behaving himself. The look the both of them gave me at my second appearance telling me I was mother-henning, but like all nosey mothers I didn’t care one bit.

“He’s actually rather charming once you get him talking. He says’ he’s calmed down a lot now he’s realised he’s here for good.” Nightingale told me as we debriefed over dinner. “Was telling me about Sushi? Sounds ghastly.”

 I let myself feel smug for a moment. “Yeah, he was hoping the wards meant he could take you out.”

“Mmm, so he said...I told him about our local indian restaurant and he agreed that sounded much better.”

 It took me a moment, and when the penny dropped I almost choked on Molly’s butternut squash gnocchi. “Sir!” I protested. Nightingale did not quite laugh in my face but it was close. The bastard.

“Would you rather I let him kick his heels and get into all sorts of trouble? He was going along being dead quite contentedly and is now dragged back into the land of the living with someone else as the _genus loci_ of his river with no idea what to do. I thought you wanted us to do more community policing?”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“You really dislike him don’t you?”

“Not really, I just know the type.”

“Really Peter, you’re acting like I can’t handle myself. If you’re that worried you can come along and bring Miss.Brook with you, she may be able to tell us something or find him something to do.”

 I looked into my dinner, the thought of going on a double date with my boss and my maybe soon ex-girlfriend’s 'relative' really putting me off my appetite. I looked up at Nightingale and saw he was trying not to look hopeful and I realised he just wanted to be surrounded by people again, get out in the world, not sit around with the past hanging over him. Then I felt like a dick.

“Yeah why not, sounds fun. What could go wrong?”

“Please Peter, don’t go about jinxing everything.”

                                                      

 The letter got taped to the underside of my sock draw like I was in a spy movie. I felt a bit weird about it being there, I felt like it should be in a safe at the bottom of a river, that’s how explosive it felt to me, but that was being ridiculous. It was just a letter afterall.

I was super aware of it for a couple of days, but Ex-Tyburn managing to wrangle a date with my boss was enough of a distraction that I forgot about it, passing out at one am after going through every possible scenario of what could happen tomorrow from me talking to Bev about what her sister said, to how her meeting Ex-Tyburn would go, to if Nightingale would flirt back with him in front of me! Christ.

 I kicked the sheets up so they would not tangle in my feet, shifting my shoulders against the soft cotton and rolled over from the darkness of my room into a soft summer's day, light diffused through the leaves of what even I knew was a Weeping Willow. The ground was hard and cool, my neck feeling the phantom pressure of where my stiff collar had been buttoned against my skin but it was okay, it was normal, like the shift of expensive, sturdy fabric over my legs. 

 The guy laying next to me was Nightingale, a very young Nightingale, face smooth and soft and bright with youth. I would have said early twenties because of the lack of puppy fat but I _knew_ he was nineteen- a world war must have just ended, luxuries like food hadn’t been around for about four years. He was on his back, summer jacket folded up under his head, hands resting on a straw boater that was sat on his stomach, long legs crossed at slim ankles. His hair was lighter, bleached from the sun I guessed by the freckles on his nose, and longer, pushed back off his face like he had been running into a breeze. His eyes were closed, long lashes resting on his faintly pink cheeks, mouth relaxed and lips looking so very soft.

 I leant forward and brushed a kiss against them, proving that they were indeed very soft and warm. “Thomas.” I whispered in a voice that was not my own, it was posher for one, and faintly Northumbrian. Nightingale did not react so I went to kiss him again and got a warm hand to the face, palm softer than it was now, a spark of power registering before my head was shoved away. 

“Stealing is a crime, you know.” He said, voice smoother and higher with youth.

“Even if one is in dire need?”

 Grey eyes cracked open and looked at me. “Tosh.” He scoffed, “The only thing you are in dire need of, David, is a knock on the head.”

“Hush now, such gentle and affectionate words will give us away!”

 I knew that look well, it was the one I got when I was trying to be funny and he was trying not to smile. He was not as good as not smiling now though, and instead shifted over so his back was to me, head resting on his bent arm.

 His waistcoat was not tight but tailored enough that I could see the point his ribcage dipped into his trim waist. A hand that was thinner and whiter than my own reached out and rested on his shoulder that felt stronger than it looked, running slowly over the warm cotton, feeling every bump, swell, and smooth line of him, and onto the slightly scratchy fabric of his trousers. I let my hand come to rest on the rise of his hip, curling my palm around so I could appreciate the swell of his bottom.

 Nothing happened for a few moments, just an insect buzzing a little way away and the sound of what was probably ducks splashing about in the stream not very far from our feet. He turned quicker than I expected, grey eyes scanning my face before I realised I had an expression to hide.

“You want to bugger me, don’t you?” He said so matter of factly I felt a bit stupid spluttering in reply.

“Tom! You can’t just go about...you’re not one of those fellows who…” 

“Chaps who what, David?” He asked in that measured way that meant he was allowing me to shove my foot into my mouth if I so wished.

“What one wants and what is possible are not in the same country most of the time.”

 Nightingale smiled easily. “When has that ever stopped you?”

“Anyway, I wouldn’t know that first thing about it and am therefore liable to hurt you.”

 Something changed on Nightingale's face, I could not place what exactly but it did. He turned more towards me, pushing himself up on his elbows, hips tilted with unintended invitation. “You don’t?”

“Of course I don’t! They don’t have reference books about that kind of thing in the library you know. The only thing I’ve seen of it are some old Greek pots and that’s hardly helpful.” I looked at him more closely, spotting something _I_ did not know him well enough to recognise. “Thomas. I would know nothing about it because there isn’t anyone else.”

“Oh I’m sorry David.” Nightingale sighed and flopped back down onto the grass. “I was a terribly stroppy seventeen year old when you went off to the Ministry of Munitions, to London, with no prefects around every corner and full of chaps more mature and smarter than I, and a damn sight more put together.”

“Tom.” I breathed, cupping his soft face in hands that were not mine, a twist of power making my palms tingle. “You are extraordinary.” I kissed him gently. “You have a sharper mind than I ever will.” Another kiss. “A more cunning rogue there never was for sneaking us all back in after a night in the pub.” He was grinning when I kissed him again. “Half the teachers in Casterbrook did not have half as much sense as you. And you rival the Prince of Wales for poise and elegance.” Nightingale was blushing now, trying not to preen under the compliments. “You are already the greatest wizard of our generation and you’re only just out of short trousers.” 

“Piss off.” Nightingale laughed, not trying very hard when he tried to get away but I pressed him down with my hip anyway.

“And you are so very lovely.” I murmured, brushing my fingers through his slightly tangled hair. “If anyone should be worried about the dashing young men of the world it is I.”

“David.” He said fondly and I kissed him properly, Nightingale sighing into it and looping an arm around my neck to pull me in closer and my body tingled. A million thoughts ran through my head as to why this happened, theories that were too foreign or advanced for me to decipher as they raced along. “I am sure two bright young things such as ourselves can find out relevant information if we put our minds to it.” He whispered in my ear, breaking me out of my thoughts as I kissed along his jaw distractedly.

I pulled away, wanting to ask if he was sure but knowing he would not have said so otherwise. “As long as it does not entail an older gentleman offering to give you a demonstration…”

 Nightingale did something that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “They wish.”

 I shot awake so fast I nearly fell right out of bed, the darkness of the room and the smell of radiator heated air leaving me disorientated for a moment before I remembered I was in my room in the Folly. I gasped in a breath, hands feeling the ghost of a body under them and my lips tingling from kisses. I didn’t look at the time, the sounds from outside let me know it was early-ish, I just scrambled out of bed and ripped my sock draw out completely, yanking the letter from under it and running out of my door without even bothering to put a shirt on, skidding a bit on the stairs as I raced to Nightingale's room, not sure what I was doing but knowing I needed to see him.

 He opened his door after I had banged on it a couple of times, blinking sleep from his eyes as he tied his dressing gown, looking annoyingly neat for someone who had just woken up. “Peter? What’s happened? Why on earth are you half naked?”

 I looked down at myself and winced, hiking my bottoms up to try and have less torso on show. “The letter gave me a...a...a dream. About a river bank, under a weeping willow, after the war. World war one that is…” Nightingale looked as horrified as I would feel in a few hours after I had calmed down enough to compute what I had seen and felt and _heard_ . “It wasn’t as if I was looking in, it was like I _was_ Mellenby, looking at you and touching you. By the way, you were an annoyingly well-dressed nineteen year old…” I paused when I noticed he had taken a step back. 

“Touching me?” 

“Not like that sir. It was all very…” Proper was not the right word, and above the belt was far too suggestive, “...chaste.” I settled on and immediately wished I had a bigger vocabulary.

“You think the letter did it?”

“It’s been in my room three days, it might have something residual in it that just got to me tonight ‘cause I was so tired. I should see if Toby has a reaction to it, if there is anything magical about it. Vestiga or something? Highly emotional moments can imprint themselves on things. But that wouldn’t fit...maybe a fondest memory? Or a last though…” It was too late to take back the ramblings that should have been going on in the privacy of my head, I had gone and done the damage.

Nightingale looked like something had been sucked out of him as I guided him back into his room, waiting for him to sit down on the trunk at the end of his bed before I joined him, our knee’s brushing.

“I am so sorry, sir. I got ahead of myself and was an insensitive bastard. I'm sorry.” 

“You’re a lot like him when you do that, ramble on. He would get so excited and couldn’t be stopped. His brain would go off on its own track, I could tell, and in the end I stopped trying to drag him back. Did not think I should have to.” 

“He did love you sir, a lot.” I said quietly, knowing just enough about it to recognise it.

“I will not hold on to that piece of paper in the hope I will see what you saw. I will not become that person.”

“I think that’s very wise of you sir.” 

“As you have experienced quite a private moment in my life you might call me Thomas at least this once for christ sake!” He snapped the last bit, glaring at his wardrobe.

“Very wise of you, Thomas.” I corrected. It didn’t feel that weird. “Can I ask you something maybe a little personal?” He gave me an unsure nod. “Were you really together all that time? Since you were teenagers until the forties?”

“Not in the literal sense of the word. We were at Cambridge at the same time because of the war, then we joined The Folly but he was mainly doing research and I was off enforcing the King's Peace all over the place. Would not see one another for a whole year sometimes. But in the non-literal sense yes, we were.” 

“That’s very special, not many people get that kind of relationship.” He tried not to wrinkle his nose at that and did a very good job at it. “You’re worth a year’s wait.”

 He gave me some serious side eye then and shifted away from me slightly. “You better give that to me, Peter, I think it’s affecting you more than we realise.”

“Why?” I asked, handing it over anyway because I trusted him and it was his. 

“You are being - you are saying things that are not...you.”

“I’m being honest.” He looked like he was trying to find anything off about me but I knew he couldn’t place what. “Lady Ty gave me a slice of my future. Bev having to watch me grow old, having to watch her kids grow old, me dying and leaving h…” I stopped myself before I went and metaphorically kicked Nightingale again. “So I guess I’m in the old ‘if you love em let em go’ situation right now. 

“I’m so sorry Peter.” He said and I was not surprised that he meant it.

“Don’t worry about me. I know it’s your duty because I’m your apprentice but let me worry about you for the moment.” I don’t know if it was the hour, the residual effects of the dream, that he looked so heartbroken, or the fact I was getting cold and I knew he was warm, but I put an arm around him and pulled him in for a one armed hug that he allowed with surprising ease, leaning into my side with my arm around his shoulders. “Not only would everything fall apart without you, but I don’t want to see you like this. I’ll blow up the letter for you if you want, I’m good at that.”

“You’re good at a lot of thing’s Peter don’t sell yourself short.” He said almost automatically, voice still in the quiet room.

“Well thank you si… but you’re avoiding my question.”

“If there is some of him there I should destroy it myself. But I feel like I may need to work up to it."

  

 

                                                                          ********************

 

 I hate to say it, but old Billy Tyburn wasn’t actually that bad. Our weird double date wasn’t actually that weird, it was mainly me asking him questions as we tried to work out how he was here and why he was slowly becoming more human, Bev telling me not to be nosey and then getting involved herself, and Nightingale being very patient with us all.

 He was a smart lad, a lot less of a dick than he made himself out to be and I suspected that was because he had been having every flush of youth at once for the past few weeks and no-one can pretend they weren’t a dick when they were a teenager.

 There was still a sparkle in those blue eyes that I knew well enough not to trust.

 It was a bit of a surprise to come back to The Folly one morning after a false alarm out in Mill Hill to find him sat in the atrium trying to not look bored or freaked out by Molly who was hovering literally and metaphorically. “How are you in here?" 

“Buggered if I know, mate.”

 After a Toby assisted experiment it turned out he had very little magic about him now, he could still call up a good fog if he put his mind to it, which shocked a lot of the people making the most of the sunshine in Russell Square, but there was no water bending anymore which we both agreed was because the Tyburn was no longer his river.

“It is weird to not feel your river anymore?”

“Well, seeing as for the last decades of my past incarnation it was choked with shit and everything else it’s actually quite a relief. I miss it when it was clean and clear, before all this lot happened.” He shrugged, waving a hand around to indicate London I guessed. 

“Are you gonna stay, now you’re not tied to a river? Go and see the world?” 

“No.” He said like it was a stupid question.

“Not even to see your dad?”

“I’m not a fan of all this city bullshit. Too Roman for me. But you don’t go and leave your manor ya know? You stick with it and he pissed off to Oxfordshire where it’s all nice and green like London was before the  _pax romana_ he **so** loved. I could’ve done that but I didn’t. He didn’t even come back to raise the tide when The City got firebombed by the Prussians, can you believe that?”

 Before I could find a way to explain that Prussia had been part of a place called Germany for a while by that point, Nightingale appeared to ask about the call out then to remind me I had practise to do. Giving emotional support had gotten me out of some latin lessons -that was not why I did it but I _was_ glad he decided to show his thanks in that way. Not that I needed his thanks in the first place.

 It was even more of a surprise to come down to breakfast a couple of weeks later to find I was the first one up which had only ever been the case after Nightingale had been shot. Molly giving me a weighted look when I came in which I didn’t understand. I asked if it was about the letter Nightingale had given to her to store away but she just huffed and floated off and I was left even more confused as I settled in to eat.

 I had something cheeky to say about beauty sleep when there was movement outside the door that died in my mouth when Sir.William walked in wearing what was obviously yesterday's flannel shirt and jeans, black hair clearly slept on.

 When he saw me he froze and looked like he was about to do a sharp about turn and walk straight back out of the room but visibly steeled himself instead, giving me a small nod. “Alright.”

“Not bad, how are you?”

 He nodded, eyes fixed on the scrambled egg as he blushed. “I was just gonna get some...to take up...stairs.”

 In that moment we were forever bonded by the desire to sink into the floor. It was nice to know this aspect of Britishness was something that had been there since the middle ages.

“You’ll have to ask Molly for a tray.”

“Okay.” He turned like he was going to leave the room, to both our relief, when Molly appeared with a tray, floating past him to place it down heavily on an empty table. We both silently watched her pour a cup of tea, strong with a lot of milk like Nightingale liked it, placing it heavily on the tray and smiling at him with all her teeth.

 Now I’ve had a few shovel talks in my time but that was definitely one of the more effective ones I’ve seen.

He filled a plate with some food and scampered off upstairs with the tray, face as red as the carpet, and I would have almost felt fond of him if I was not forcing all sorts of mental images far, far away.

 I didn’t see Sir.William leave, but at nearly midday Nightingale walked into the techcave looking like he was going to his doom. We make awkward noises at one another for a bit, Nightingale trying to apologise and me assuring him that he didn’t need to.

“The only one you may need to apologise to is Molly but she’s too busy intimidating him. Look, if it’s healthy and he makes you happy then I don’t care. I’m happy for you. S’about time you got something to distract you from giving me homework.”

 I got a filthy look for that. “Thank you for the reminder Peter, I shall find some Herodotus for you.” He said airily as he turned on his heels, making sure I saw his smirk before he jogged down the stairs.

 I didn’t really mind, he grew on your slowly. Plus I knew Nightingale, he did nothing he did not consider, and after the month he’d had he deserved some fun, but after the month I had I felt a duty of care towards Nightingale so reserved my judgement on Sir.William for a while. I knew he could tell he hadn’t got past me yet but didn’t get pissy about it, taking Molly’s cold glares with noble silence like he was taking a test, which he kind of was I suppose.

 He passed mine during the Autumn Rugby Internationals, him yelling ridiculous things at the TV to make Nightingale laugh and looking so pleased with himself when he did. He couldn’t stay, had work in the morning, and I wasn’t snooping, honest mi’lud!, but I may have spotted him murmuring something to Nightingale as he said goodbye that could only be declarations of emotions from how tellingly red they both went.

Lady Ty was going to do her _nut._

 

 

 


End file.
